


The Kamikaze Affair

by LeetheT



Category: Man from Uncle - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:29:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeetheT/pseuds/LeetheT





	The Kamikaze Affair

Illya Kuryakin leaned forward, both hands laid firmly over his partner’s. “Napoleon, are you sure you want to do this?”

Napoleon Solo scowled down at his lap. “Of course I’m sure,” he said, jaw clenched. “Don’t stop now.” His left hand clutched tight and his right hand stroked downward.

Illya flinched, dropped his arms and sat back, shaking his head. “It’s late, and you’re tired. I don’t think ...”

Napoleon let go and flexed his fingers briefly, glancing up at his partner. “You’re not giving up this easily, are you? I can do it.” He replaced his hands in the still-strange positions.

“Harder,” Illya commanded.

“It hurts,” Napoleon groaned. “Isn’t this supposed to be fun?”

“Some people think so. Harder.”

Napoleon obeyed, teeth bared in a grimace of pain. “I can’t believe how much this hurts. How do you do it?”

“Practice,” Illya said, trying not to laugh. “You need to relax.”

“I’m relaxed,” Napoleon lied, shaking out his arms. “Besides, if I relax, I can’t do it.”

“I hate to break this to you,” Illya said, “but you can’t do it even when you don’t relax.”

Napoleon grabbed his partner’s hand, pulled it toward him. “Come on. Show me again.”

Illya smiled, shaking his head. “The things you’ll go through to impress a woman.” He leaned forward once more, patiently arranging his partner’s fingers on the neck of the guitar.

“Daphne is not just a woman — ow! Not so hard!” Napoleon flinched as Illya pressed his sore fingertips against the strings. “She’s a goddess. And she loves music. She wants to be serenaded.”

“There.” Illya sat back again. “Try that.”

Napoleon strummed. “Hey. That wasn’t bad.” He did it again. “What am I doing?”

“It bears the vaguest resemblance to a C major chord,” Illya said, fighting a smile. “But don’t worry. No one will mistake it for music.”

Napoleon strummed again. “You just don’t like it that I’m such a natural musician.” His left hand was cramping.

“Yes.” Illya drew away, enjoying the sight. With Illya’s Ovation in his lap, Napoleon looked about as comfortable as a bank president cradling an otter. “In another month you’ll be going on tour with The Beatles.”

“I don’t have a month,” Napoleon said. “Daphne’s birthday is tomorrow, and her favorite song is Moon River.” He strummed again, but his left hand was weakening, and the sound was decidedly clunky.  He shook his arm out, replacing his hand on the fretboard. “Is that right?”

Illya sighed, peered at his stiff fingers. “Have you any sensation in that hand at all at this point?”

Napoleon strummed, crooning unsteadily: “Moon ... River ... wider than a—” He stopped, looked at the guitar. “Oh. That’s not right, is it?”

“You’ll find that knowing only one chord leaves you ill-prepared for navigating the intricacies of the more complex songs,” Illya acknowledged.

“Smart ass,” Napoleon muttered. “What’s the next one?”

Carefully placing his partner’s fingers to play a G, Illya said darkly, “It will take all the vaunted Solo charm to overcome the effects of this one song. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just hire a band?”

“I could just — ow! — hire you,” Napoleon teased, strumming.

Illya shrugged, and Napoleon was treated to the vivid image of the delectable Daphne gazing rapt and dewy-eyed at his partner as Illya sat at a piano singing some damn’ melancholy, lady-killing version of Moon River.

“Never mind,” Napoleon said hastily. “Just keep coaching, my huckleberry friend.”

“It’s your funeral.” Illya grabbed Napoleon’s strumming hand. “In fact, if you don’t stop that, I’ll kill you myself. Only you could make an expensive guitar sound as if you were hitting yourself in the head with a plank.”

He let go. Napoleon curled his lip and strummed once, hard, defiant — then yelped.

“Ow. It bit me.” He peered at his finger, scowling, then held it out to his skeptical partner. “Look.”

Illya clinically examined the nail on Napoleon’s middle finger, torn to the quick. He pressed above the last knuckle and blood welled up along the edge of the tear. Napoleon yanked his hand back. “Hey!”

“Well, that can happen,” Illya said, getting up. “Music is not for the faint of heart.” He went into the bathroom.

Napoleon flicked at the torn nail a few times. “I hope Daphne appreciates all this effort and suffering.”

“Your suffering or mine?” Illya said, returning.

“You could skip the mockery and get your wounded partner a —” Napoleon caught the little metal box Illya tossed at him — “Band-Aid.”

“Don’t get any blood on my guitar,” Illya said.

“Your sympathy is underwhelming.” Napoleon administered first aid to his injured digit. “This girl’s worth a little spilled blood.”

“Couldn’t you just ply her with wine and inundate her with insincere compliments as you do with most women?” Illya asked.

Napoleon raised the Ovation by the neck and swung it over him like a club.

“Damage it and I’ll be forced to break your elbows. Not that that would perceptibly hinder your playing.” Illya snatched the guitar out of his partner’s grasp. “Get up. Stretch. Walk around the room.”

Napoleon did as he was told, surprised to feel how hunched over he’d gotten during the lesson.

Illya watched him pace, both hands pressed into the small of his back. “Do you really believe you can learn to execute a credible performance before we have to leave for Los Angeles?”

Napoleon stopped at the window, turned to smile at him. “She’s worth a try.” Despite himself his thoughts shifted from Daphne to their upcoming mission.

Illya set the guitar on his own lap, watched his partner in silence for a moment, then said, “Any ideas?”

Napoleon shook his head. “I never met Singh in Calcutta or al-Fasi in Cairo — although I recall how shoddy the security was in that office—”

“Yes,” Illya agreed. “I remember.”

“But I did know Brian Sneath. I didn’t like him, but I can’t imagine what they could have done to him to make him turn. Not even as a double agent, still less an assassin.”

Illya nodded. “And so quickly. His last mission only took three days. What technique could make a loyal UNCLE agent a kamikaze in three days?”

Napoleon glanced at his partner, acknowledging the aptness of the term. Three agents, one in the Cairo UNCLE HQ two months ago, one in Calcutta three weeks ago, and, two days past, one in Los Angeles. Three loyal longtime agents had returned from routine missions (as routine as UNCLE missions ever were), walked into their offices, and assassinated their bureau chiefs, with whatever means was to hand. They then killed themselves before they could be caught or questioned.

“The autopsies found nothing?” Napoleon asked; he’d left analysis of the more technical data in the file to his partner, though he’d read it.

“Nothing. Not that there was much left in any of the first two cases. And there was nothing in the third. No implants, no sign of any drugs whatsoever.” Illya rested his arms on the guitar and set his chin on one forearm. “It’s as if they simply ... changed their minds.”

“Agent al-Fasi walked into his boss’s office and shot him, set the room on fire and blew his own brains out.”

“Who knows how long the bodies would have lain there before someone noticed, if it hadn’t been for the fire,” Illya muttered acidly.

Napoleon’s lip quirked, a half-smile of agreement. The agents had had little cause to praise the Cairo operations during their last mission in Egypt.

“Agent Singh, escorting Mr. Samoy to a government meeting, pushed his chief off a 20th floor balcony, wheelchair and all. Then he jumped.”

“Mr. Samoy trusted his men implicitly,” Illya said. “He had to.” The Calcutta chief, one of Waverly’s equals in experience and power, used a wheelchair and relied on his Sikh guards for mobility and security.

“And Sneath...Sneath drove himself and Ralph Feldman off a cliff and into the Pacific.”

Napoleon exhaled through pursed lips, remembering Mr. Waverly’s remarks: _Once is a tragedy. Twice is a conspiracy and three times a catastrophe. I want you two on this L.A. case. Trace Mr. Sneath’s every move prior to his ... his actions. Find out what happened to him before it happens to someone else._

“Could they have been, not turned, but bought?” Illya wondered aloud.

Napoleon turned, leaned on the wall. “Could _you_ be?”

The corners of the Russian’s mouth tilted up. “Not with money.”

“No, only food works on you,” Napoleon teased fondly. “But you’re right, that’s an angle worth exploring. I don’t think Sneath had any close relatives, but ...” He briefly regretted not having brought the files home, but recalling the reason he hadn’t, he shook his head. “Never mind that now. Tomorrow, when we’re awake. In the meantime...” He held out both hands for the guitar.

Illya affected horror, drawing back in his seat and waving his arms. “ _Nyet_! _Nyet_ , _pazhalsta_! I’ll talk!”

Napoleon stalked forward, grabbed the guitar, and plumped down on the couch again. “Food and torture. I’ll remember that. Now come on. How many chords can there be in this song?” He forced his aching hands to assume the position.

Illya leaned back on the couch, resting his head on the plush cushions. He glared at his partner from one half-opened eye. “Isn’t it enough that I’m willing to take a bullet for you? What do you want from me, blood?”

Napoleon affixed a scowl to his forehead. “Are you going to help me or not?”

Illya didn’t shift. “What’s in it for me?”

“A promise that I’ll never ever _ever_ sing for you.”

The Russian sat up. “All right. From the beginning...”

* * * *

The next morning, when Illya entered the office he shared with Napoleon, he was surprised to see his partner already at his desk, going over the file on the Los Angeles mission.

“How are your fingers?” he asked.

Napoleon glanced up, looking puzzled, or maybe only preoccupied. “Fine.” He returned his gaze to the file.

Illya took off his coat and hung it up, sitting on the edge of his own desk and sorting through the paperwork thereon to find the pertinent files for their L.A. sojourn. The intercom buzzed and Lisa Rogers asked Napoleon to come to Waverly’s office.

“I’m on my way.” Napoleon shut off the intercom and left without another word. Illya glanced after him, puzzled at his partner’s manner. Possibly the Los Angeles case was absorbing his thoughts and souring his mood; he had been acquainted with the most recently deceased agent.

* * * *

“Mr. Solo.”

“Mr. Waverly.”

“Sit down. I want to talk to you about these ... well, for lack of a better word, about these reprogrammings.”

Solo sat and Waverly spun the table to place the dossier before his top agent.

“All the information we have on Calcutta, Cairo and Los Angeles is there. I’m afraid you’ll have to start in Los Angeles. The trail is too cold in the other bureaus.”

“Yes sir. Do we have any clues at all?” Solo opened the file.

“Each man spent the night prior to his betrayal alone, Singh in a hotel room next to Mr. Samoy, al Fasi and Sneath in their homes. There are no witnesses to whatever might have occurred between dusk and dawn to turn those men.”

The CEA flipped pages. “Any chance of an autopsy on Sneath?”

“They’ve found Mr. Sneath’s car,” Waverly said. Solo looked up sharply. “On the rocks below the cliff. There isn’t much left, but they’re attempting autopsies of both men. You and Mr. Kuryakin will fly out tonight and see what you can make of things.”

Solo nodded, eyes on the file again.

“Speaking of Mr. Kuryakin, I wish you’d talk to your partner about his penchant for blowing things up at the slightest provocation. He’s costing us more in ordnance than you do in wardrobe.”

Solo smiled. “I’ll have a chat with him, sir.”

“See that you do. I’m seriously considering putting Mr. Kuryakin back in the labs permanently. He rarely causes explosions there.”

Waverly had meant it as a joke — as much as he ever joked — but when Napoleon didn’t react, didn’t even look up to be sure it was a joke, suspicion sparked in Waverly’s brain. On any other day he might not have noticed; now, any unusual behavior raised his hackles.

“No complaints, Mr. Solo?”

Solo looked at him. “Well, sir, I’d be very sorry to lose Illya as my partner. But he is valuable in the labs, too.”

Waverly kept his expression neutral, thinking as fast as he’d ever thought in his life. He pulled out his pipe, dug around for a match, then said, as if casually:

“Oh. The microfilm, Mr. Solo.”

Solo looked up again. “The ... microfilm, sir?”

Waverly creased his brow. “The microfilm, man. In your bullet clip. Let’s get that out of the way now so we can concentrate on more important matters.” He held out his hand.

Solo got to his feet, came around the table and drew his gun, popping the magazine. He stopped in front of Waverly, gun in one hand, clip in the other, and hesitated for a moment.

Waverly curled his fingers impatiently and Solo set the clip on his palm.

Waverly immediately dropped it into the pneumatic tube at his side, then pressed the alarm button. Solo started as the klaxons filled the building. His hand tightened on his gun for a split second, then he cast it aside and lunged at Waverly.

* * * *

The doors slid open. Illya charged in, gun drawn — and astonishment slapped him to a stop.

Napoleon hauled Mr. Waverly away from the computer control panel. His arm tightened around Mr. Waverly’s throat; the other hand pressed a knife under the UNCLE chief’s chin, denting the soft skin behind the jawbone.

“Napoleon!” In a split second Illya registered equally that his chief was in mortal danger and that his partner was the threat. His training instantly severed any connection between emotion and action; he took aim at Napoleon’s head and began calculating options.

“Back off,” Napoleon growled. “I’m leaving, and he’s coming with me. Or he dies, here and now.”

 Illya held his UNCLE Special on his partner, tracking him unerringly as Napoleon backed against the wall and edged toward the door, Waverly staggering awkwardly along with him. The old man looked more surprised than frightened. Both his gnarled hands were on Napoleon’s forearm, but even the redoubtable Mr. Waverly had no hope of freeing himself from his top agent’s hold.

“Napoleon,” Illya repeated, softly this time, holding his partner’s eyes, his will clamped down hard on the shock, the incredulity and fear that roiled within. _Later_. “Don’t. Think what you are doing.”

Napoleon was careful; he kept Waverly’s body in front of him, offering a clear shot only of his face, and only to an excellent marksman.

Over the wail of the alarms, the sound of running feet echoed down the corridor.

Napoleon glanced at the door, clearly realizing he wasn’t going to get away. His gaze darted to Illya, cold, unfamiliar.

“You won’t shoot me,” he said.

“Drop it, Napoleon,” Illya said. _Please. **Please**. _  “I’ll have to kill you.” He wanted Napoleon to understand that he had only one clear target; any shot he took would be fatal.

“I’ll take him with me,” Napoleon said, baring his teeth. He was sweating, but there was no panic in his eyes. No anger, no confusion, only determination.

“Mr. Solo—” Waverly choked out.

Illya saw Napoleon’s eyes narrow, saw the hand holding the knife clench abruptly. He fired once.

The impact knocked Napoleon free of Waverly, against the wall, arms flung wide. The knife flew across the room and Mr. Waverly staggered away, neck bleeding.

Napoleon slid to the floor, a blackened hole perfectly centered between wide, dead brown eyes.

Mr. Waverly grabbed the back of a chair, gasping for air, one hand pressed to his bleeding neck.  He stared down at the body of his top enforcement agent, sprawled supine on the floor, then turned his gaze to Kuryakin.

Illya slowly lowered his gun. His eyes, as lifeless as Napoleon’s, never left his partner. At last his arms fell to his sides. The UNCLE Special dropped from his fingers, clattering to the bare floor.

April Dancer and Don Deacon came to a halt in the doorway, panting, guns in hand. They took in the scene in one dumbfounding, world-upending moment. Then April moved to Mr. Waverly.

“You’re hurt, sir.” She pulled his bloodstained hand away to check the puncture in his neck. Don, gaze darting between Illya and Napoleon’s body, moved to the intercom to request assistance from the Medical section.

Mr. Waverly gently pushed April aside and went to Illya, taking hold of his arm.

“Mr. Kuryakin...”

Illya didn’t move or shift his stunned stare. As far as April could tell he wasn’t breathing; she wouldn’t have been surprised to find his heart had stopped as well.

Don picked up the Russian’s gun.  When Illya took no notice, he set it on the conference table and went somewhat warily toward Napoleon’s body.

To Waverly, Don said, “I’ll have someone—”

“No.”

Illya wrenched free of Mr. Waverly’s grasp, strode to the body and shoved Don aside. Don caught himself against the wall and backed away to stand beside Waverly and April. They watched Illya kneel unsteadily beside his partner, hands limp at his sides.

Tears trickling warm down her face, April said softly, “Napoleon ... what in God’s name happened?”

Mr. Waverly’s voice was uneven.

“Mr. Solo ... tried to kill me. Mr. Kuryakin stopped him.”

“I don’t believe it,” April whispered.

Two orderlies from Medical, wheeling a gurney, hurried up the corridor, sliding to a puzzled stop at the door.

“An ... an autopsy will have to be performed,” Waverly said. Don, seeing the blood still running down Waverly’s neck, said, “Sir, you should have that seen to.”

Illya looked at Napoleon’s body. His heart and lungs felt like stones in his chest, useless, as dead as his partner’s.

 A hand touched his shoulder, and April’s voice came from somewhere.

“Illya. Let the Medical team take ... take his body.”

Illya shook his head. She pulled him to his feet — away from his partner —  he snarled and lashed out, backhanding her away.

Don started forward automatically, and Waverly exclaimed, “Mr. Kuryakin!”

April, one hand against her stinging cheek, held the other up to forestall any further reaction.

“No,” she said, watching Illya again sink to his knees beside the body. “Let him.”

Illya examined his partner’s still, wide-eyed face, unable to think, to make any connection between Napoleon Solo and this would-be assassin with a bullet — his bullet — in his head. _I killed you._ The words echoed into the dark emptiness in his mind.  _I killed you._ His hand stretched, trembling, to touch Napoleon’s cheek. His skin was still warm, and if Illya’s gun had been within reach at that moment, he would have used it again.

April’s voice, from far away, just reached his ears and mind.

“Illya, take him to Medical. Please. He can’t stay here ...”

Illya clenched his jaw and slid his arms under Napoleon’s body. He lifted his partner and, stone-faced, ice-eyed, carried him to the gurney. The orderlies stood back and let him lay Napoleon on the gurney. Illya started pushing it along the hall toward the elevator, and the orderlies, at a loss, followed him.

April and Don, in shock, watched the macabre parade disappear down the hall.

Then April looked at the old man, still crying, tears that had nothing to do with having been struck.

Finally Mr. Waverly said, “I’ve just lost my best agent.” He sounded utterly at a loss.

Don said, “Mr. Waverly, I think you’ve just lost both your best agents.”

* * * *

Dr. Baker took over in the anteroom of Medical, prying Illya’s fingers from the gurney and wheeling Napoleon’s body into the small room used for autopsies. Illya started to follow, then stopped at the door. It ripped at his soul even now to be separated from his partner, but some force defending his remaining sanity held him outside. He couldn’t stand in there and watch while Napoleon was cut open and dissected, a corpse like any other corpse, dead beyond even a fool’s hope. He couldn’t see that, couldn’t admit it; not with all those scalpels within reach.

* * * *

Don entered the anteroom. Illya stood in the corner, leaning against the wall, hunched, arms crossed, drawn into himself mentally and physically.

Don gritted his teeth. He’d done harder things in his years as an UNCLE agent, but right now he couldn’t think of one. He kept his tone level, making it as plain as he could that this wasn’t his idea.

“Mr. Waverly told me to return this to you.”  He pulled out Illya’s UNCLE Special and set it on a chair near the door.

Illya’s eyes tracked the gun’s movement from hand to chair, and Don clearly saw him turn white. He pushed off from the wall and walked briskly past Don, out of the anteroom.

Don used the few ensuing minutes earnestly reconsidering his childhood oath against using profanity. Then he took off his jacket and draped it over the gun.

Illya came back into the room, wiping his face with a damp handkerchief. He glanced at Don, then wavered. Don came to him, took his arm, and guided him to a chair, noting how Illya’s stunned stare returned to the door his partner was on the other side of.

Gently Don asked, “Do you have any idea what happened?”

Illya shook his head; Don had no clue whether his question had been understood, or even heard.

“Whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault,” Don said. “You did what you had to do.”

“I keep expecting to wake up,” the Russian whispered. “Or ... “ He turned his hands palms up, looked at them. _I killed him._ His hands curled into fists. _I killed him._

Don pressed his shoulder, knowing words were useless.

* * * *

Mr. Waverly came into the room an hour later, a white bandage taped to his chin. Don looked up at his boss. Illya didn’t shift.

“Anything, sir?” Don asked.

Mr. Waverly shook his head. “We haven’t been able to determine how or where Mr. Solo might have been ... reprogrammed. He’d been back from Tokyo for three days, debriefed, nothing unusual. He was scheduled to go to Los Angeles tonight on this very case.”

Dr. Baker came out of the autopsy room with clipboard in hand. Illya looked up, bleak.

Baker pulled off his mask with a sigh. “Well, I’ve only done a very preliminary job, but I can’t find anything physiologically wrong. He’s in absolutely perfect health. No implants, no damage other than—”

Don felt Illya shrivel under his hand, but the Russian’s pinched expression didn’t change. Looking at his face, Don thought you couldn’t hurt him worse without severing a limb. Which was, in a way, what had happened.

“—other than what’s to be expected,” the doctor covered smoothly. “Three fillings, old breaks, fully healed ... liver, lungs, heart, appendix, spleen ...” Baker shook his head. “He was in perfect physical health.”

Illya sprang up from the chair and lunged at Baker. The doctor started back in surprise as Illya grabbed the clipboard out of his hands.

“Mr. Kuryakin!” Mr. Waverly admonished. Ignoring him, Illya raked his gaze over the chart, life flooding back into his face. He looked at Waverly, eyes burning.

“What is it?” the old man said.

“Napoleon had his appendix out,” Illya said. He shoved the chart back at Dr. Baker, scowled at the doors to the autopsy room for a moment, then plunged through them. The other three trailed after him, mystified.

The body lay on a table in the middle of the small room, covered with a sheet. Illya stalked to the table. The air was cold and thick with sharp chemical smells and the bitter stink of something recently burned.

“Mr. Kuryakin—” Waverly began, his voice a mixture of patience and exasperation. Don stood at his superior’s shoulder, hoping Illya was right and not deranged by grief. He watched the Russian circle the table as if planning to attack its occupant.

“Napoleon tore a fingernail,” Illya muttered, grabbing the edge of the cloth. “Last night. The middle finger of his right hand.” He flung the sheet back and picked up the corpse’s right hand, squinting at it — more closely than he should have had to, Don thought, in the bright light.

Dr. Baker moved closer first, then Waverly and Don; all of them peered at the corpse’s flawless manicure.

Illya straightened up, triumphant, almost gleeful as the weight of calamity fell from him.

“It isn’t Napoleon,” he announced, dropping the limb. The relief on his face tightened into realization even as Mr. Waverly said:

“If this is not Mr. Solo, where —?”

Illya was already out the door.

* * * *

In the UNCLE parking garage Illya ran for Napoleon’s car, brushing past Mike Beck as the junior agent was on his way in.

Illya barely slowed. “You!” he barked. “Come with me.”

Mike turned on one heel, wobbled a second, and ran after Illya. The Russian had the car started and moving before Mike could close the door.

Tires squealed on concrete as Illya pulled out of the garage on onto the street, narrowly missing a bus. Mike grabbed the dashboard and said, “Is every day like this for you?”

“Sorry,” Illya said, eyes not leaving the road. “Napoleon is missing. I want to check his apartment. He was there last night.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Mike said, settling into the seat.

* * * *

The door was locked. Illya used his code and key, and Mike Beck followed him in, very interested to see the place UNCLE’s legendary CEA called home.

Illya drew his gun as he moved silently down the entry hall, so Mike did the same, noting that the room ahead was dark, curtains drawn, no lights on. A kitchen to the left, a door — Illya opened it quietly and peered inside briefly before closing it again, so Mike guessed it was a closet — to the right.

In the living room Illya stopped; Mike almost bumped into him.

A small table lay on its side by the hall that led into the bedrooms; a shattered glass bowl and scattered fruit lay around it. One big poufy couch cushion leaned against the hearth, and a guitar, broken in half, lay crushed against the side of the coffee table.

Mike drew his gun and moved to cover the bedroom hallway. Illya advanced on the guitar, knelt in front of it, touched the surface. At first Mike thought he was being rather sentimental over a broken musical instrument with his partner missing. Then Illya raised his fingers, brushing them across his thumb, and scowled.

“Plaster dust.” He looked around. “It’s all over.” He got up and nodded for Mike to follow him into the bedrooms.

In the doorway to the master bedroom, the reason for the plaster dust became apparent. A man-sized hole had been blown or punched through the wall beside the bed. Plaster and bits of brick were scattered around the hole; dust frosted the carpet, the rumpled bed, everything. A pillow lay on the floor by the hole.

Illya touched Mike’s arm, a signal to wait. Then he quickly investigated the spare bedroom and the bathrooms before returning to the scene of the crime.

Heavy bootprints were visible in the dust on the carpet, scuffed here and there in signs of struggle. The agents went through the hole in the wall and found themselves in the bedroom of the next door apartment.

It was a mirror image of Napoleon’s in layout, though decorated in the flower-and-chintz manner of the elderly. Aside from the hole in the wall they found nothing untoward until they ventured into the second bedroom.

The old couple lay side by side on the narrow guest bed, she in a pink nightgown, he in brown pyjamas.

The agents each took one side of the bed, scrutinizing the bodies.

“Ah, God ... they shot them both in the head. Jesus.” Mike looked at Illya.

“They needed to work without interruption for a while,” Illya said. “If they’d blown the wall out the whole building would have known. They must have cut through very carefully, very slowly. If only they’d left some machinery behind...”

He went back into the living room, checked the front door — locked from the inside — then looked around again.

Mike came into the room, said, “Old people don’t leave their curtains open at night,” and crossed to the big picture window. Illya followed, noting the faint trail of plaster dust leading to the window.

The flowered curtains were pulled back halfway, and the window was open about an inch. Mike opened the curtains all the way. Unscreened, the window had a small decorative ledge on the outside and some dirty fingerprints along the edge near the catch.

“It makes sense,” Mike said. “Mr. Solo’s window’s got an alarm, but these old people wouldn’t think to do something like that. They come in from the roof, jimmy the window, do their dirty work, and go out the same way they came in.”

Illya slid the window open and leaned out. Up did make more sense than down — perhaps a team on the roof with a chopper, or they might have hoisted Napoleon up, then crossed roof by roof until they could descend somewhere without witnesses. Illya examined the ledge, fingering some fresh gouges in the concrete.

He drew his head back into the room. “Call it in. We need a forensics team.”

He listened to Mike speaking quickly into his communicator as they made their way back into Napoleon’s apartment. In the bedroom Illya paused, looking around, trying to visualize how the kidnap had gone.

Mike put away his communicator. “They’re on the way.”

Illya made a quick search of the closet and the dresser. “Napoleon was asleep. He didn’t have time to dress.”

“How do you know?”

“His blue pyjamas are gone, his shoes are all still in the closet, and that suggests he attempted a feint with whatever was at hand for a person in bed.” Illya pointed in turn as he spoke at the dresser, the closet, and the pillow on the floor.

“A pillow?”

A tiny smile touched the corners of Illya’s mouth. “I’m assuming his gun was in his other hand.” He crouched by the hole in the wall, pointing to three dark stains that stood out against the dust. “And this suggests he fired it at least once, and hit what he was aiming at.”

“Oh.” Shaking his head, Mike trailed Illya into the front room. Somewhat less than half the room was devoted to a walnut desk and some built-in bookshelves — all now dusted with white powder. Illya scanned the bookshelves, then bent over the desk.

“What are you looking for?”

“We have codes set up for this sort of situation,” Illya said, opening drawers to reach into their backs. “If Napoleon had time ...” He stopped, drew out a silver letter opener with a filigree handle. “ _There_ it is.”

“A clue?”

Illya blinked. “No. Sorry. Napoleon’s aunt gave him this for Christmas. He thought he’d lost it.”

He set it back in the drawer and kept working.

“Man...” Mike winced to realize he’d said it aloud.

Illya looked up at him. “What?”

“It’s just like it’s your place,” he said, shrugging. He didn’t fool himself that he and Illya were buddies, but they’d shared enough mission time — even a little down time — for him to know the Russian wouldn’t take it wrong. Probably.

“I’ve been here many times,” Illya said, going back to his search.

“Um...” Mike felt himself flush, but Illya didn’t even stop working. “You know, people talk about you two.”

Illya glanced at him, expressionless.

“I know they do.”

Mike felt like an idiot. Of course both Solo and Kuryakin would know they were constantly discussed and theorized about around the water cooler.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” he asked. This time Illya gave vent to a tiny, silent chuckle as he bent over a bottom drawer.

“If I allowed things like that to bother me I wouldn’t get anything done.”

“What about Mr. Solo?”

“He finds it amusing. He says we are like an old married couple. Constant bickering and no sex.” 

His tone was so dry it took Mike a minute to realize he was joking. His startled laughter almost choked him.

“Sorry.” He cleared his throat, chuckling. “That’s pretty good.”

“I thought so too.” Illya straightened. “There’s nothing. He didn’t have time.” He looked at Mike.

“Shall we try the roof?”

Mike shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

Illya’s communicator went off.

“Kuryakin.”

“Mr. Kuryakin, I’d like you to return to headquarters immediately.”

“I was just going to check the roof of Napoleon’s building, sir,” Illya argued courteously. “We think a helicopter—”

“Forensics will handle that. We’re taking another tack here. Return at once.”

Illya scowled at the communicator. “Yes sir.”

He signed off and Mike said, “Do you want me to stay here and report back to you with the forensics teams’ reports?”

“Please,” Illya said, heading for the door. “Thank you for your help, Mike.”

Mike waved. “It’s what they pay me for.”

* * * *

Napoleon opened his eyes, just a slit, to see a flat white ceiling. Not moving, he glanced to the left. A white wall. To the right, a small white room with a barred door.

He lay on a cot, not strapped down. He sat up slowly and his brain did a 360.

He wore nondescript brown coveralls and, so far as he could determine, had been drugged, but not physically injured, though his head and jaw ached. He went through the usual mental checklist of internal and external circumstances, then considered how he’d been taken.

He’d been asleep. The noise from the wall had been barely enough to awaken him, time only to grab his gun with one hand and fling his pillow at the intruders with the other. He’d taken out two men after a rolling dive toward the door, but they’d shot him with some sort of dart that began to slow him down within seconds. He’d fallen in the living room, and they’d piled on top of him. He remembered seeing white dust floating around the black-clad intruders. He remembered seeing Illya’s broken guitar lying on the floor as he was hefted over a shoulder and carried ... then he’d blacked out.

The cell door clanged open to admit two standard issue THRUSH with pistols — more practical in close quarters than the machine guns they favored — and two unarmed guests.

A young man in a lab coat and an old woman in a skirt suit came into the room. The woman looked calm, the young man impatient, even angry.

“Mr. Solo,” the old woman said. Her voice had the thick grating sound of decades of cigarettes and confidence. “I’m glad to see you awake. How do you feel?”

He examined her and her companion closely. She was about 60, though straightbacked and impeccably maintained. She had the elegant ruthlessness of mien he associated with old-school THRUSH, which was a bad sign. They had once recruited for genius, rather than cruelty. The young man, tall, thin, fair and balding, looked more like a scientist than a thug, for all his evident impatience.

“Mr. Solo?” she said.

“I’m sorry, were you addressing me?” he asked, rising to his feet slowly, mindful of the gunmen.

“I was,” she said. “My name is Eloise Saul. This is Dr. Jasper. We are your hosts, for the time being.”

“I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me where I am?”

Dr. Jasper cut in. “Think of it as your final resting place.”

Napoleon sighed audibly. “If I had a dime for every time some two-bit villain said something like that to me...”

“We have some questions,” Jasper said. “You’ll cooperate if you know what’s good for you.”

Napoleon smiled. “Generally, when I’m in a THRUSH cell, it’s a little late for me to be worrying about what’s good for me.”

Jasper’s mouth and eyes narrowed. “You’ll answer our questions, one way or the other. You won’t be laughing then.”

Napoleon examined him. He was nervous. Angry and eager and uneasy. The woman, however, radiated calm. From her manner, Napoleon would have assumed she was in charge, but if so, why was Jasper asking the questions?

Napoleon crossed his arms behind his back, rocking on the balls of his feet. “You know, I’ve had this conversation a thousand times, and ... I never tire of it.” He paused, added pointedly, “Evidently THRUSH doesn’t either.”

“I don’t think you appreciate your position,” Jasper said. “UNCLE believes you to be dead. They aren’t going to come looking for you. You’ve been divested of all tracing devices, including the clever little gimcrack in your tooth.” His mouth stretched in a tight smile while Napoleon thought that that explained why his jaw ached. “You belong to us, Mr. Solo, for the duration.”

Napoleon rubbed his forehead, trying to remember where he’d heard Eloise Saul’s name before. “Shall we take the usual questions and answers as read and move on to something more productive?”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Saul said. Jasper glared at her, but the guards handcuffed Napoleon and flanked him. Jasper and Saul led the way out of the cell and along a corridor.

In front of another barred door, Jasper stopped, as if a thought had just occurred to him.

“Oh, this might interest you, Mr. Solo.” He indicated the cell door.

Napoleon looked inside.

A man lay on the cot inside, naked, unmoving, covered in bruises, burns and raised red welts. The man groaned and turned his head. Napoleon saw his face, and in an instant THRUSH’s plot and his own probable fate became clear. It was Brian Sneath, the Los Angeles UNCLE agent.

Napoleon swallowed, heart jittering in his throat.

“I’m sure you have things to discuss with your colleague,” Jasper said, “but that will have to wait. Our little talk has precedence.”

The gunmen shoved him along the hall, to a room at the end.

Napoleon scanned the banks of equipment and trays of instruments that lined the walls, then let his gaze rest on the chair in the middle, tilted at dentistry angle, leather straps dangling along the sides.

“In the chair, Mr. Solo,” Jasper said. Napoleon didn’t move.

One gunman holstered his weapon, lifted Napoleon into the chair and strapped him down while the other held his pistol on him. He held himself stiff, muscles tensed so that he’d have a little play when the strapping was done. What he’d do with that play he didn’t know, but it was standard operation procedure.

Jasper strolled past the chair to one of the tables of gleaming metal instruments. “Before we start,” he said, then turned to face Napoleon. “You’ve been out of touch for a little while, Mr. Solo. And things change so quickly in the espionage business. Perhaps you’d be interested in the latest scuttlebutt.”

“I never listen to rumors.”

“This is not rumor, Mr. Solo. It’s not exactly fact, but it’s not rumor. The word is that you killed your superior.”

“What?” Napoleon cursed the automatic reaction; even knowing it was what they’d wanted, seeing Brian had shaken him.

“That’s right.” Jasper smiled broadly. “This morning. You were the perfect assassin. You cut Mr. Waverly’s throat, in his office, and your own partner shot you dead afterward.”

Napoleon forced himself to breathe, to not move. Waverly, dead? It didn’t seem possible. And that Illya had killed ... not him, clearly, but someone believed to be him? Napoleon shook his head. His partner had to be in hell, if that were true. Even if — especially if — his double had killed Mr. Waverly. Cairo, Calcutta and Los Angeles were enough evidence that what Jasper claimed might be true, that New York was step four in their kamikaze assault.

He relied on the only thing he had. “I don’t believe you.”

“Your partner is currently on psychological leave, and they’re flying Sir Trevor Gardner over from London to run things at UNCLE New York for the time being.” Pause. “Would you like to see our copies of the UNCLE memos?”

Jasper was smiling. Eloise Saul was expressionless.

“If you talk to us, you’ll at least get to THRUSH Central intact.”

“Like Brian Sneath is intact?” he asked through his teeth.

Jasper shrugged. “Central doesn’t want him. They want you. They’ll get you. But the condition they get you in ... well, that can vary a great deal depending on how much you’re willing to tell us.”

“About?”

“UNCLE’s current operation in Turkey.”

“Turkey?”

“Your office is tracking down uranium smugglers.”

“Is it?”

Jasper turned away for a moment. When he turned back he held a metal disk in each hand. Wires trailed from the disks back to one of the machines lining the walls.

“Mr. Solo,” Jasper said. “Don’t make me use these.” He was clearly dying to.

Napoleon met Jasper’s gunmetal eyes. After a moment, Jasper sneered.

“Then we’ll do it the hard way.”

* * * *

Half an hour later they dumped Napoleon’s unconscious body on the floor of the cell where Brian Sneath still lay in a pained stupor.

Dr. Jasper and Eloise Saul stood for a moment at the door, observing the two men.

“He’ll talk just like Sneath talked,” Jasper said.

Saul shook her head. “Coarse. Crude.”

“Effective,” Jasper countered.

“That’s yet to be proven, in Solo’s case,” she said, then sighed. “In my day—”

“This isn’t your day, old woman!” Jasper exploded. “It’s _my_ day. Etiquette is dead. This is about power. Knowledge is power. Science is power. Your day is over.”

He turned and strode away. Eloise Saul continued to gaze thoughtfully into the cell for a few minutes, then returned to her own office to make a call.

* * * *

In Waverly’s office, Illya reported what he and Mike had discovered.

“Forensics hadn’t arrived by the time I left, so we don’t have any clues about who has taken Napoleon.” Illya clenched his hands, lowered them out of sight under the table. A clock ticked in his stomach; every passing second increased the chances that Napoleon was dead. _If he isn’t already_ — Illya cut that thought off with a brutal slash of fear and denial.

Mr. Waverly fondled his pipe for a moment, gaze distant.

“Sorry about the peremptory summons, Mr. Kuryakin.”

“That’s all right, sir. What have we learned?”

“Well, nothing. But after your ... precipitous exit earlier, it occurred to me that we might make use of the situation. This is the first time the assassination attempt has failed. For which I am grateful, by the way.’

Awkward, Illya said, “Anytime, sir.”

Waverly harrumphed. “Don’t let it go to your head. In any event, we’ve cloistered the handful of witnesses to the attack and my subsequent still-breathing condition, and have leaked the story that the attack was successful.”

Illya nodded, considering. UNCLE monitored THRUSH, of course, and vice versa. Low-security information was regularly exchanged with a kind of honor-among-spies pretense of ignorance. It would be a simple task for UNCLE to release supposedly classified information to any monitoring agency.

“The story is that I am dead, Mr. Solo is dead, and you are on psychological leave after killing him.”

Illya sighed softly. “Yes sir.”

“We’ve sent for Trevor Gardner to fly over from London and run things for a while. I’m to remain in my steel tumulus for the duration. You are to behave as if on medical leave.”

“Here? Or am I to go home and ... lie down?” He hoped the latter; he’d have some freedom of movement then, at least.

“You’ll remain here, Mr. Kuryakin, for the time being. Other agents will follow up on the case and will report to Mr. Deacon, who will forward all information to you. If we can manage to track down the ... producer of these doubles, you shall lead the assault.”

“Sir ... there is a reasonable chance that Napol — that the agents who were ... duplicated are still alive.”

Waverly nodded, wild brows pinched in thought. “Yes. But until we have some clue as to who is creating these assassins, and where they are located, Mr. Solo is on his own.”

* * * *

Napoleon pulled himself up from the floor and staggered over to Brian, sitting on the cot beside his. The Los Angeles agent blinked at him, clearly not yet alert. Napoleon pulled the sheet off his cot and laid it over Brian’s naked form, then rested his head in his hands. His body alternated sharp stabbing pains and deep aches. He put his fingers to his lips and they came away red; he realized he’d bitten his tongue, though he couldn’t specifically feel it.

“Solo?”

Brian turned feebly to face him.

“It’s me, Brian.” Napoleon touched his shoulder lightly, seeing his own hand tremble.

“How’d they get you?” Brian’s voice faded away in the course of the short sentence.

“Same way they got everyone else, I imagine,” Napoleon said. Anger tightened in his stomach. _Four times. Four successes. Four UNCLE chiefs dead. No. Three you know of. Waverly’s alive ‘til you know different_.

“They told me Feldman’s dead.” A long pause. “That my double drove him off a cliff.”

Napoleon nodded, slowly because his head was pounding.

“Waverly too?” Brian asked.

“I don’t know.” Napoleon looked around the cell, finding it typical. Probably monitored as well.

“They said that my double cut Mr. Waverly’s throat,” he said. “And that Illya then killed my double.”

“Bet he’s been...” a moist, rattling breath— “... itching to kill you for years.”

Napoleon forced a smile. He and Brian had never been friendly, but admiration flooded him now for the L.A. agent’s bravado.

“Well, he apparently got his chance. Listen, Brian, what have you learned? What have they asked you?”

He doubted the agent had the strength to really understand, let alone answer, his questions.

“They asked me ... about Turkey.” The words came with an effort that made Napoleon’s muscles clench in sympathy. What he’d suffered — some mild electroshock therapy aimed at loosening his tongue — was nothing compared to what Brian had been put through. They knew what they were doing, putting him in here; looking at Brian’s torn and battered body, he saw up close and personal what was in store for him.

“I told them L.A. ... had nothing to do with that operation.” He shook his head feebly, coughed. “They didn’t...”

“Brian...” Napoleon laid a hand on his shoulder. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter right now. Rest.”

He leaned against the wall, worn out. Even the hope of rescue — a constant as sure as gravity, knowing his partner — was as faint as he could ever recall. Even Illya wouldn’t search for him if his body was lying in UNCLE’s morgue.

He had fallen into an exhausted doze by the time they came for him again.

* * * *

Illya sat hunched over his desk, speedreading through the forensics teams’ reports on Napoleon’s apartment and the roof.

He flipped a page over — stopped. Flipped back. Cursed. A page was missing. He called Don’s office and got no answer, reached out to buzz the lab and stopped himself. He was supposed to be on psych leave, not working on anything. If the wrong person answered it would blow his cover. Better to go down to forensics the back way and get Swanson to find the missing page.

Cursing, he strode out of the office. He knew the teams were under pressure, but that was no excuse for this kind of sloppiness.

He strode into the lab to hear two of the clerks, a man and a woman, talking. Bent over file cabinets, both had their backs to him.

“Yeah, sittin’ in there in Solo’s chair like he owns the place. Jesus. Cool as a cucumber. Shot his own partner dead and acts like it’s just another day at the office.”

“But Mr. Solo killed Mr. Waverly!”

“I know, but ... man, nothing affects the guy, you know?” He dropped his voice. “I even heard that him and Solo...” He trailed off and the girl, turning to him, saw Illya in the doorway.

She dropped the file she was holding. “Mr. Kuryakin!”

“Speak of the devil and he appears,” he said, walking in. “Is Dr. Swanson here?”

She flushed and her coworker spun around, immediately turning a matching shade of shame.

“Oh ... sh ... she’s in the back, Mr. Kuryakin.”

He nodded and continued into the labs.

Carla Swanson, a statuesque blonde with more degrees than Illya, apologized for the error and located the missing page for him, then, eyeing him levelly, said:

“I’m sorry about Mr. Solo.”

“Thank you,” Illya said blankly, turning to go. Knowing the body in the morgue wasn’t Napoleon wasn’t the same thing as being sure he was alive. It was possible her condolences were appropriate, and that he would find that out before too long.

The clerks, huddled together in the filing room like children expecting a spanking, watched him leave.

Illya went back upstairs, shaking his head. It never failed to befuddle him that he and Napoleon were such perennial topics of gossip. They were no different from any other Section Two agents. Maybe better than most ... maybe better than all the rest ... but hardly worth so many hours of whispers.

And such nasty whispers — though those were mostly about him, not Napoleon. What was it that made strangers believe that they knew your heart? That if you didn’t bleed in public for their entertainment, it meant you didn’t bleed?

* * * *

Napoleon stirred to blurred, painful consciousness, just for a moment, when the guards dropped him on the cot. His eyes semi-focused on the other cot. Brian was gone. Nothing remained but a few bloodstains, brown on the dented grey mattress, and the sheet Napoleon had covered him with, crumpled on the floor.

Napoleon’s brain spun, and he lay back on the cot, oblivion swirling up around him.

* * * *

Illya was again up to his elbows in useless data when the phone rang.

“Illya? It’s Don. Listen ... the police called us. They found a body. We don’t know who yet, but he was carrying UNCLE ID.”

“Where?”

“Central Park. The Ramble, near 79th. I’ve told them to touch nothing and I’ve sent a team.” Don paused, said, “Illya?” just as he heard the receiver on the other end drop onto the cradle.

* * * *

“Hey!” The police officer saw the two men headed toward the sheet-covered body next to the path and hurried over to fend them off. “Sorry, buddy—”

Illya slid his UNCLE ID out of his pocket and waved it in front of the officer without pausing.

Mike stopped, catching the cop’s arm when he moved to follow.

“Hang on, officer,” he said quietly.

Illya let his momentum keep him moving, through the scream-white fear blanking his mind, all the way to the shrouded body, down onto his knees, one hand, unbelievably steady, reaching out to pull it back.

From a discreet distance, Mike watched Illya raise the cloth. His chin lifted, chest swelling with a sudden intake of breath, and he let the cloth drop, air leaving his lungs in an audible sigh. He pressed his fingers over his eyes briefly, then covered his mouth, as if to stifle an exclamation.

“I’ll be damned,” Mike said softly. “Solo’s luck comes through again.” He approached, the curious police officer following.

“The team’s on the way. Do you know him?” Mike asked. Illya glanced up at him, relief and worry etched in his face.

“I think it’s Brian Sneath.” He pulled the sheet back again. The body, badly beaten, cut and burned, lay on its back. It had been deposited no more than 6 feet from the path, under a bush but clearly visible.

“Who found the body?” Mike asked the cop.

The officer nodded up the path to where another cop, notebook in hand, was talking to a bum. “Craigie’s talkin’ to him.”

Illya and Mike went up the narrow path. The officer was just closing his notebook when they arrived. The bum looked at them both with a cringing mix of fear and hostility.

“You from UNCLE?” the officer asked.

“Yes,” Illya said. “We’d like to talk to your witness.”

“I already told—!”

“Shaddap!” the cop cut off the bum’s protest. “Got his statement here.” He tapped the notebook with his pencil.

“We’ll want a copy of that for our files,” Illya said politely. “But we still would like to question him ourselves.”

The cop shrugged. “Sure.”

“We were told an UNCLE ID was found on the body,” Mike began. The officer fished around in his jacket and came out with a plastic bag holding a yellow rectangle.

“He had it in his hand. Tight.” He gave it to Mike.

“I understood you were asked not to touch anything,” Illya said coolly. The cop gave him a glare.

“Not ‘til after we called you, mister. I saw it, I picked it up, I called it in. I’m a cop. That’s what I do. I didn’t move the body or anything else.”

Illya nodded. “Thank you for your help.”

“We’ll take it from here,” Mike helpfully urged him along.

The cop departed, muttering about snotty spies.

The bum, who’d watched the interplay interestedly, cringed anew when both agents’ attention turned to him.

“Now ...” Illya began. “Mr. ..?”

“Carlton.”

“Mr. Carlton ... do you want to sit down?” Illya indicated a bench. Eyes never leaving the agents, the bum scurried a little sideways and eased himself down, dirty knees poking out of his worn trousers.

“What time did you see the body, Mr. Carlton?”

He shrugged, shifting the too-big coat on his thin shoulders. “Hour or two ago, I guess, the first time.”

“The first time?” Illya said sharply. Carlton flinched, and Illya moderated his tone.

“Mr. Carlton, please tell us everything. It’s very important.”

He glanced toward 79th. “I was over there, just sort of nappin’. A truck pulled up. Paneled truck. Blue. Said Cave at Construction on the side.”

“Cave at?” Mike echoed.

“C-A-V-E-A-T,” the man spelled as if Mike were a stupid child.

“Go on,” Illya said. “What made you notice the truck?”

“Nothin’ at first. Then two guys got out and pulled a bundle out of the back, like a big rucksack. They walked along here—” he pointed with a wavering and very grubby hand— “‘til I couldn’t see ‘em no more. Then they went back to the truck. Didn’t have the bundle any more.”

“What were the men wearing?” Illya asked.

Carlton squinted. “Blue. All blue. Anyways, so I got a little curious about where that bundle went.”

“Hoping they might’ve left something you could pawn?” Illya asked, and Carlton flinched again. Mike looked up to see two of UNCLE’s forensics men coming up the path, bags in hand.

“Maybe. So I waited ‘til they drove off and I came in here. That’s when I saw the stiff.” He shuddered. “Scare the life out of a man, seein’ something like that unexpected.”

“And you called the police?” Illya asked sharply.

Carlton straightened up. “I’m an honest citizen! Just ‘cause I’m down on my luck right now—”

“And you touched nothing?”

“Wasn’t nothing for me to touch. He didn’t have nothing I could use. I just went up to the street and flagged down a cop. Took a while, too. They don’t see guys like me ‘less they feel like givin’ us a hard time.”

Illya turned, surveying the scene as the UNCLE pathologists set their gear on the path and approached the body.

“THRUSH,” Mike said. “But why dump the body here?”

“It’s not the first body that’s been dumped here,” Illya said. It seemed fishy to him as well. “Bums are fairly invisible. They probably thought they weren’t seen.”

“Should we take him in?” Mike asked softly. Illya nodded.

“For now. He might know more. And we can at least feed him.”

Mike smiled. “Softy.”

Illya shook his head. “Let’s go.” Louder, to Carlton, he said, “Come along with us, Mr. Carlton.”

The bum drew back.

“It’s all right,” Mike said. “We want to talk to you some more. That’s all. You’re not under arrest or anything like that.” He set his hand to Carlton’s elbow and urged him up.

After a pause to tell the forensics team what they knew, they headed back to HQ, Carlton the mystified bum between them.

* * * *

A voice called his name, pulling him from a tense half doze. He struggled to sit up on his cot, leaning against the wall, blinking glazed eyes.

Eloise Saul stood outside the cell.

“Where is Brian Sneath?” Napoleon croaked out the words. His throat was raw, probably from screaming, although he didn’t remember doing so.

“Dead,” she said. “Dead and gone. But not forgotten.” The guard with her unlocked the door and the two of them came inside. The guard shut the gate but didn’t lock it; then he turned his gun on Napoleon as Eloise Saul gazed at him. He saw that she had a bundle of blue cloth under her arm.

“No,” she said. “Don’t get up.”

Napoleon, who’d had no such intention, peered up at her, vision blurred by the headache lancing through his temples.

“You know, it went well at first,” she said, conversationally. “Our doubles in Cairo and Calcutta and Los Angeles performed beautifully. I thought our little plan was perfect.” She sighed. “Ah well. No plan is perfect. At least we caused UNCLE some harm and inconvenience.”

“How did you create these doubles?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Nothing new. Extensive plastic surgery. Brilliant plastic surgery, really, reconstruction on a level rarely attempted.”

“The technique used in the August Affair?” Napoleon asked.

“Yes. Perfected. Or, at least, improved. Dr. Phipps was the lead plastic surgeon in that operation. After the ... failure in the Alps, I recruited him. I read the reports, and I knew that it wasn’t his technique that had failed us.”

“No?”

“Those who failed us paid the ultimate price for it, Mr. Solo,” she said. “I was eager to try again.”

“If Phipps is the doctor in charge, what’s Jasper’s role?” Napoleon asked. “Other than imitating Mengele?”

“Dr. Jasper is the protege of one of my colleagues. He is  ... in training,” Saul said.

“He’s mastered evil,” Napoleon said.

“But he hasn’t mastered management,” she replied with a cool smile. “Hurting people is only a small part of what we do, Mr. Solo.”

“Of course. Stupid of me.”

“He’s a child. This project is everything to him. I’ve seen a hundred such projects, and I know there’ll be a hundred more. My own position is more important to me now than any one endeavor.”

“Ah. Now we come to the point, yes?” Napoleon urged.

“Yes. I happen to know that ... that this operation will be coming to a rather dramatic end, rather soon. I plan to be far away when that occurs.”

“You’re telling me this because..?”

“I’m going to do you a favor, Mr. Solo. A very small one. I’m going to leave now, and rather than take you with me for delivery to THRUSH Central, or kill you — which would be very easy right now — I’m going to leave you a uniform, a gun, and an unlocked cell door. What you do with that is your business, of course.” She smiled again, cadaverously.

“This is all without Dr. Jasper’s knowledge, of course?” Napoleon asked.

“I see you understand me.” She smiled. “It’s a kind of a ... double cross, if you will.”

“Forgive me for not laughing,” he said. “May I ask to what I owe this largesse?”

She shrugged. “I like to keep my options open. Your gratitude is an option. Perhaps down the road it will benefit me.”

“How is it you know this little set-up is about to fall down?” he asked. “And why aren’t you cluing in your charming associate?”

She glanced at her watch.

“This is a cut-throat business, Mr. Solo — no joke intended. The good doctor is after my job. He’s made no secret of it. That was his first mistake. His faith in UNCLE’s leaked information was his second. He won’t have time to make a third.”

“UNCLE’s leaked information?” Napoleon echoed, having an inkling of where she was headed.

“About Waverly being dead, you having been killed by your efficient partner. All leaked by UNCLE. He should have been more suspicious of it.” She smiled.

“You have a mole,” Napoleon said.

“If I told you that, I would have to kill you, Mr. Solo. But I will tell you that, along with the plastic surgery, our agents underwent intensive psychological programming. They were supposed to kill themselves after achieving their objective, and in such a way that autopsies would not reveal any ... flaws in our creations. That programming seems to have failed in the case of your double.” She tsked. “Tedious.” She glanced at her watch again. “They should be here anytime. Your deceased colleague should point the way.” She dropped the bundle on the cot next to Napoleon, careful not to get between him and her henchman, and moved quickly back. “I wish I could see the look on Dr. Jasper’s face when your people arrive. I especially wish I could see the look on his face when he tries to escape and realizes I’ve already ... commandeered the helicopter.” She sighed. “Ah well. You’ll have a little time, Mr. Solo. Maybe you’ll get out before Jasper comes back for you. Maybe your friends will arrive before then, but I wouldn’t wait if I were you. Au revoir, Mr. Solo. It’s been a lark.”

The door clanged shut behind them and Napoleon heaved himself to his feet, which he could scarcely feel. He tried the door. It was indeed unlocked, and the corridor outside deserted. He leaned there, thinking a moment. It made perfect THRUSH sense that she’d be setting up a rival to take the inevitable fall, but letting him go was an uncharacteristically charitable act for any THRUSH, even an old-school THRUSH. Yet, considering what he could look forward to if he just sat here, Napoleon was willing to take the risk. He moved back to the cot and pulled the pistol from the THRUSH uniform, then shook out the jumpsuit. He searched it as well as his shaky hands would allow, more than half expecting a tracking device or mini-bomb. He found nothing, nor was the gun other than it should be, as far as he could tell. He stripped, pondering what she’d said about leaks. It implied, if his hope didn’t deceive him, that Waverly was not dead, that they’d penetrated the ruse. If UNCLE was on its way here, whether for rescue or assault, he could at least count on some reinforcements.

He pulled on the jumpsuit, zipped it up and went to the door, head spinning from the exertion. If there was one thing he could use right now, it was reinforcements.

* * * *

The intercom buzzed and Don’s voice came on immediately:

“Illya?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve got it.”

 Adrenaline jolted Illya to his feet.

“It’s an office building on the west side, under construction. Fenced, security guards wearing a very familiar uniform, and blue trucks that say Caveat Construction all over the site.”

Grabbing his coat, Illya leaned toward the intercom, already out the door. “Keep them under surveillance and meet me in the toy store.” He ran for the UNCLE armory.

* * * *

Napoleon headed for the stairs, slowly, careful to not stagger or sway. He had to lean on the wall to pull it off, but no one looked twice at him.

The building seemed to be a semi-finished office. Parts were unpainted, some rooms were missing doors, and wiring hung from absent ceiling panels here and there. A pause at a window told him he was maybe 20 floors up. He’d also seen the dirt and construction materials on the ground, and noticed that the site was fenced. It seemed an easy way to keep unwanted witnesses at a distance.

It galled him that his only goal was to get out. He wanted to take this place out first, but it was all he could do to focus his vision and make his feet move in a straight line. _If I pass out and go head first down the stairs, let me land on a self-destruct button at the bottom._

The elevators had to be working — at least, no one was using the stairs, for which he was grateful as he plodded downward. Maybe he could just walk out of here, then point the way for the UNCLE assault force Eloise Saul seemed to think was on its way.

* * * *

The THRUSH at the guard shack sat up and slid the Playboy magazine under the counter when the 18-wheeler ground to a noisy stop on the street. He kept his eyes on the truck but his gun out of sight as the driver, a dark-haired man in jeans and a t-shirt, clambered down from the cab and went to the front. He opened the side engine panel and poked around for a while, swearing with a vehemence that made the guard grin.

The driver stepped back from the engine and looked up and down the quiet street, clearly at a loss. Turning, he saw the guard booth and approached.

“Hey — you got a phone?” he called out. “I donno what the hell’s wrong with this thing—” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder back toward the truck as he neared the booth. “I gotta call my boss, tell him to send someone out.” He grimaced. “Then I gotta call my wife, tell her I’m gonna be late so she knows I’m not cheatin’ on her.”

The guard grinned, reached for the phone, his other hand still on his gun.

The driver leaned on the narrow window ledge of the booth, smiling. “Then I gotta call my girlfriend and tell her I can’t make it tonight.”

The guard laughed out loud — then slumped to the floor of the guard shack, an UNCLE mercy bullet in his neck.

Tony Alberti reached inside the shack and hit the gate release, scanning the compound. The construction workers, no doubt simply additional THRUSH security, had gone home — or at least, were out of sight — probably to avoid arousing suspicion. The guards, patrolling near the building, were too distant to have heard the conversation. If he could get the truck inside before one of them noticed the unconscious gate guard...

He dashed back to the truck and started it up.

* * * *

Napoleon stopped on a landing that he guessed was the 11th floor. He leaned on the concrete banister while his brain alternated between spinning and trying to jackhammer its way out of his skull. The hero is in some trouble in this scene, he thought, squeezing his temples with thumb and fingers.

He forced himself on, leaving the stairwell to re-enter a corridor.

A woman rushed past and he grabbed the butt of his borrowed gun, but she paid him no notice. People farther down the corridor were shouting, but he couldn’t make out the words.

He went into a nearby room — a storeroom from the boxes — and went to the window.

A tractor-trailer was parked askew in front of the building; it took Napoleon’s fuzzy mind a moment to sort out the scores of darting, milling figures below, to realize UNCLE agents were pouring out of the back, scattering, firing at the THRUSH guards.

He went back to the stairwell and started down again.

* * * *

Illya charged up the west stairs, the vanguard of the UNCLE assault force at his heels. At each door a contingent split off to secure the floor, until finally, at the 10th floor, there was only Illya, Don Deacon and Tony Alberti, and four other agents.

Illya pulled out his communicator to contact the team currently tackling the east stairs. “Report.”

“Hansen, sir. First three floors secured. Nothing but a handful of guards. One of them ... volunteered the information that the labs are on 15, 16 and 17.”

“Transfer the prisoners and continue floor by floor. Out.” Illya glanced at his colleagues, nodding at the door that separated the stairwell from the building.

“Let’s continue.”

He pushed the door open. They filed cautiously into a big room, unshaded windows on either side giving the only light. The space was clearly being used for storage; boxes and crates and dropcloth-covered machines lined both walls in straggling rows. Across the room another door read “Stairs.”

“There’s an elevator,” Don said, gesturing to their right, toward a gap in the boxes. “Shall we save our aching knees?”

Illya considered. “Why not?”

They were halfway to the elevator when the doors opened and a dozen blue jumpsuits poured out.

* * * *

Napoleon leaned on the door leading from the stairwell back into the building, listening.

“You! Hold it.”

He froze.

“What are you doing out here?”

He turned around to see a THRUSH guard, gun in hand. He started to raise his hands.

“Why aren’t you downstairs?” the guard said, not aiming his weapon at Napoleon, who remembered he was wearing a THRUSH uniform.

“I was headed down there,” he said. “I thought I heard something.” He tilted his head toward the door.

The man glanced at the door and Napoleon lashed out, knocking his gun hand aside. The guard’s pistol went flying when Napoleon’s roundhouse connected with his jaw; he shook off the blow and lunged at Napoleon, slamming them both hard against the door, which shifted and opened. The THRUSH caught his balance and let go of Napoleon, who fell through the open doorway and rolled into the room. He stopped himself and got to his hands and knees, shaken, in a big open room with boxes and machinery stacked along its walls.

To his left, he realized, was a group of THRUSH gunmen. To his right, amongst others, his partner.

* * * *

As one, the THRUSHes turned toward Napoleon, raising their weapons.

“Napoleon!” Illya lunged toward his partner, diving behind a copy machine. From there he squeezed off a volley of precise shots that drew off some of the attention Napoleon’s entrance had attracted.

“Illya!” Don hissed, reaching for him far too late, as everyone scattered for the cover of the nearest pile of boxes.

At Don’s side, Tony snapped, “Damn suicidal Russian.” He shot Don a sidelong glance, said, “No partner’s worth this. Come on, let’s draw their fire,” and darted in the opposite direction behind the boxes, not seeing Don’s exasperated grin. The THRUSH agents began to fire from their cover on the other side of the room.

Napoleon got his feet under him as a bullet whinged into the floor where his face had been. He scrambled toward the doorway to the stairs and stopped, seeing the THRUSH guard still on the landing, smiling, raising his pistol.

Strangely, he didn’t stop smiling when the bullet entered his forehead, though his eyes widened. He kept raising his pistol, too, as he tilted and fell backward.

Napoleon turned, startled, to see Illya hurtling toward him, flinching as the occasional bullet struck a crate or support pillar near him. The Russian shoved Napoleon through the door and followed, setting his back to the wall inside the stairwell. He fired three shots at the THRUSH men in the room, then drew back, popped his empty clip, slapped in another, and glanced at Napoleon.

“Hi,” Napoleon said. He indicated the dead THRUSH. “Nice shot.”

“What are you doing here?” Illya asked, deadpan.

Napoleon’s brows shot up. “I ... ah ... got captured.”

Illya looked out the door, fired another shot. “You’ll do anything to avoid that pile of reports on your desk, won’t you?”

“You aren’t here to rescue me?” Napoleon asked.

“I’ll check my orders, but I don’t believe—” a shot snapped off the edge of the door, spattering plaster, and Illya ducked farther back— “I don’t believe you were mentioned.”

He glanced at Napoleon, who’d acquired the lost little boy look he did so well. Illya swallowed a smile.

“I’m only kidding, Napoleon,” he said. “If I remember correctly, you were objective number six.”

“Six?” Napoleon cried, drawing his gun. “Out of how many?”

* * * *

Don and Tony crouched behind a big packing crate, firing carefully, keeping the THRUSHes’ focus on them and away from Illya and Napoleon.

A THRUSH stood up from behind a box, a grenade of some sort in his hand. He pulled the pin and raised his arm to lob it at the agents behind the equipment. Don took aim and fired. The THRUSH man flew backward, the grenade tumbling from his hands ... toward the stairwell.

* * * *

Napoleon saw the grenade roll to a stop in the doorway. He grabbed his partner and dove away from the door, behind the concrete stair banister. They hit the steps as the grenade went off.

* * * *

Don watched the doorway explode into rubble and white plaster dust, then waved the rest of his team to circle around. In another three minutes they had the surviving THRUSH men in custody. Don sent the prisoners downstairs with two guards and went with Tony and his remaining colleagues to inspect the crumbled wall and ceiling.

Tony whistled. “That was a hell of a grenade.”

Don shook his head. “We’re not getting through that way. We’ll need to come up from below or down from above.” He beckoned his partner and the others. “Let’s go.”

* * * *

Ears ringing, Napoleon got up off his partner and turned to look at the pile of dust and rubble that had been a doorway and a wall. The blast had also blown a hole in the stairs below them. Napoleon peered over the railing at that gap as Illya climbed to his feet.

“I think down is out of the question,” Napoleon said, glancing at his partner.

Illya shrugged and indicated that Napoleon should precede him. They climbed to the next floor and Illya poked his nose through the doorway.

“It’s clear.”

They stepped through. “The other stairwell is across the building,” Illya prompted.

Napoleon nodded. They saw and heard no one as they hurried along the corridor. Napoleon figured everyone had either gotten away or was downstairs in the fray.

Where the corridor branched they paused. Napoleon glanced around the corner and saw a tall man in a lab coat carrying a briefcase, scurrying along toward the elevator.

“Jasper.” He beckoned Illya to peek around him.

“He’s one of the sadists in charge.”

Both agents watched the man slip into the elevator.

Remembering what Eloise had told him, Napoleon said, “He’s headed for the roof. He’s expecting to escape via helicopter.”

“Expecting?” Illya said.

“He’s been pre-empted. Come on.”

They ran for the stairs and climbed as fast as Napoleon’s determination could push his battered body. After three floors Illya took hold of Napoleon’s arm, lending his strength to his partner for the rest of the climb.

The door to the roof was ajar. Napoleon and Illya peered out to see Dr. Jasper staring in wide-eyed disbelief at the big empty space where his helicopter was supposed to be.

“Jump, you sadistic bastard,” Napoleon muttered. “Can’t THRUSHes fly?”

“I hate to interrupt you when you’re gloating,” Illya said, glancing back down the stairwell. “But we’re being followed, and I don’t think it’s the cavalry.”

They went out onto the roof and Napoleon shut the door, pulling off his THRUSH uniform belt and wedging the buckle into the door as well as he could. Illya pulled out his communicator.

“That should hold them for about two seconds,” Napoleon said, heading toward Jasper, who was staring across the helipad at them.

“Open Channel F,” Illya said.

“Channel F open.”

“Mike, it’s Illya. We’re on the roof. We could use reinforcements. Immediate ones, if possible.”

“Give it up, Jasper,” Napoleon shouted. “We’ve got your elevator surrounded.”

Jasper dove for the elevator. Illya tsked, lowered the communicator, raised his UNCLE Special, took quick, almost careless aim, and fired. The shot hit the elevator control panel, which exploded into sparks and wires and bits of plastic. Jasper flinched back, then turned around, visibly trembling. He dropped the briefcase and put his hands in the air.

The door to the stairs flew wide and a trio of THRUSH agents plunged out onto the roof, opening fire. Napoleon and Illya launched themselves to one side. Jasper neglected to duck; a stray THRUSH bullet took him high in the shoulder, flinging him against the elevator doors, where he slid down to crumple in a limp pile.

Napoleon and Illya rolled and came up firing; the THRUSH agents ducked for cover just as a helicopter thundered overhead.

Napoleon looked up, for a moment thinking it was Eloise Saul returning to save her colleague. But the gold-and-black UNCLE insignia reassured him that it was their reinforcements.

Illya waved; the chopper circled and came down, fast. The THRUSH gunmen took aim at the helicopter, giving Napoleon and Illya a chance to dash for its open side door.

Illya pushed Napoleon into the chopper and holstered his gun, hopping up after him.

A single shot cracked and pain lanced through his left leg, twisting his body. He lost his balance and fell backward, hitting the roof hard.

Napoleon dove toward Illya, hand outstretched, too late. A trio of shots spattered against the bubble of the chopper, shattering the plastic. Mike flinched at the impact and the chopper wobbled, rising half a dozen feet.

On his stomach, Napoleon saw Illya lying curled on his side, fumbling his gun into his hand, facing the THRUSH gunmen across the rooftop.

“Are you secure? We’ve gotta move,” Mike shouted. Napoleon realized he didn’t know he’d lost half his cargo.

He swung quickly around and pushed himself out of the chopper, hitting the roof behind Illya, dropping into a crouch and drawing his gun.

“What are you doing?” Illya hissed, clutching his leg. He spared his partner a brief glare of disbelief before returning his attention to the advancing foes.

“Payback,” Napoleon said, taking aim and dropping the lead THRUSH as another bunch of them burst through the door onto the roof. The chopper wavered above them, blades making the air throb, dancing as Mike tried to make it a more difficult target for the gunmen.

Blue jumpsuits poured out the door, scattering. Several of them took aim at the chopper; Napoleon could hear the rounds hitting the windshield, the skids, maybe the blades. The chopper swerved away from them as Napoleon dragged Illya behind the nearest air conditioning vent. THRUSH bullets pinged off the metal; Illya pushed himself up with a grunt of pain and fired several rounds, each accounting for one attacker. He dropped down again on his side, his uninjured leg folded under him.

“I think we’re on our own,” Napoleon said as the sound of the chopper faded behind the scattered gunfire from the roof. “Rough count says there’s six men, all with rifles. More could be coming.” He crouched down over his partner, one hand resting on Illya’s shoulder.

“Any ideas?” Illya asked.

“Surrender is always an option.”

“Feel free to suggest it,” Illya said, voice harsh with pain. “But I don’t think they’re going to give up that easily.”

Napoleon glanced down at him, smiled, squeezed his shoulder. “That’s their mistake.” He flinched as a bullet struck the air vent and ricocheted near his head, then peered cautiously around the vent to fire a brace of shots, not expecting to hit anything. He didn’t like admitting it even to himself, but he saw his hand shake as he took aim. They were in no shape for a heroic standoff, neither of them.

The UNCLE chopper appeared again, sudden, moving fast across the top of the building. Far too fast to be of help, Napoleon thought, until he saw the small canister drop from the craft, landing amongst the THRUSH guards. It hit and exploded, releasing a heavy grey smoke that expanded rapidly. The chopper disappeared.

Shouts and random shots scattered in the smoky air, fading under the thunder of the helicopter as it returned, upwind of the smoke. The chopper came down a few yards from Napoleon and Illya, hovering two feet above the roof.

“Gas?” Illya asked.

Napoleon coughed, shook his head. “Smoke bomb. Come on.” He pulled Illya to his feet and lunged for the open door of the helicopter.  Napoleon grunted as he lifted his partner into the chopper.

“Either you’re getting heavier or I’m getting weaker,” he said, hauling himself onto the tilting floor of the helicopter. Illya scooted out of the way.

“Secure back there?” Mike shouted.

“Go!” Napoleon replied, sliding the door shut.

Illya sat up as the chopper swooped away from the building, one hand bracing himself, the other pressed against his throbbing leg. Napoleon sat next to his partner, steadying him against the erratic motion of the helicopter.

“Hey!” he called as the chopper dropped abruptly. “Take it easy. You got injured people back here.”

“Never tell the ambulance driver to slow down,” Mike called back. “They’re still shooting at us, in case you’re interested.”

The turbos whined as the chopper rose again, leveling off.

Napoleon opened the first-aid kit and pulled out a roll of gauze, crawling over to his partner. Illya straightened himself with a grimace and wrapped both hands around the bloody wound in his leg.

Napoleon immediately moved his hands out of the way and pulled at the bloodsoaked denim, peering at the wound.

“Looks like you got off light, considering,” he said, loud over the helicopter noise.

“Considering what?” Illya countered, watching Napoleon unravel the gauze. His gaze narrowed, and Napoleon realized Illya’d noticed the unsteadiness of his hands, even in midair. Well, it’s hard to miss, he thought ruefully.

“Considering your banzai approach to my rescue,” Napoleon said, lifting Illya’s leg carefully to draw the gauze under it.

“Are you all right?” Illya asked.

“Me? I’m fine. I was halfway out the door when you people arrived and got everyone all worked up.”

“Solo’s luck,” Illya mocked.

Napoleon grabbed his shoulder, shook him gently. “You’re my luck, you crazy Russian. Now hold still and let me get this bandage on.”

* * * *

“Well, they’re as sound of body as they usually are after these sorts of excursions.”

Dr. Baker set one of the files he carried in front of Mr. Waverly and stood aside to let the chief of section one peruse it.

“Solo has some moderate burns and bruises and general debilitation from electroshock ... therapy, as it were. Kuryakin has a moderately serious bullet wound to his left thigh. Of course both should stay under observation overnight, and, also of course, neither is willing to unless you specifically order it. We have 17 casualties from the assault, though only three are serious. They, fortunately, don’t have the clout to flout me.” Baker blinked as Waverly glared at him, then shook his head. “I’m sorry I said that. Anyway, no fatalities.”

Mr. Waverly scanned the report and closed the folder. “Then I suppose we must consider this a success.” His tone betrayed no difference from that which he employed in acknowledging failures.

Baker shuffled through the papers in his hands. “I also pulled Mr. Solo’s medical records, while I was performing the autopsy on him. Well, on what I thought was him.” He held the open folder out to Mr. Waverly, indicating the relevant spot with his index finger. “What do you think of that?”

Mr. Waverly read the line and his shaggy brows danced.

“Interesting.”

“What do you suppose Illya was on about,  with that appendix remark?”

Mr. Waverly pursed his lips a moment in thought, then shook his head. “I’m reluctant to argue with success, doctor, however arcanely arrived at.”

His desk intercom buzzed and he laid a finger on the button. “Yes.”

“Solo and Kuryakin are here, sir.”

“Send them in.” Waverly released the button and nodded at Dr. Baker. “Thank you, doctor. That will be all for now.”

Baker shrugged and went out, greeting the agents in passing as they entered.

“Sit down, gentlemen,” Waverly said without looking at them. “How are you both?”

Illya piped up, “Fine, sir.”

Napoleon shot his partner a glare. “Well enough, sir.”

Waverly made a deep sound of suspicion. “I’m willing to take your word for it so long as you don’t give me cause to regret it. I’ve read the preliminary reports from agents Deacon and Alberti. Our team secured the building and we have doctors Phipps and Jasper in custody. As for your actions ... I cannot decide whether it’s that the both of you believe yourselves immortal, or that each of you possesses some martyr complex concerning the other.”

Napoleon and Illya stared straight ahead, glancing at each other only in their thoughts.

“Still, you did help to stifle a particularly heinous THRUSH plot, so I suppose I must congratulate you.”

They risked a brief look of mutual relief.

“What about Eloise Saul, sir?” Napoleon said. “That is, she implied that she had a spy here. A very well placed one, from the sound of it.”

Waverly nodded. “Rest assured we’re looking into that as well, Mr. Solo. You two will take the rest of the day off to recuperate. I’ll expect your reports tomorrow before noon.” He turned back to the file he was reading.

“Yes sir,” the agents said simultaneously, levering themselves to their feet and limping out of the office.

They met up with Mike Beck in the corridor near their office.

“Glad to see you back and on your feet, Mr. Solo,” Mike said.

“So am I, Mike,” Napoleon replied. “Thanks for all you did to see to that.”

Mike beamed, but said, “All in a day’s work, sir. Anyway, it benefits me too.”

“In what way?”

“Your partner’s sort of irritable when you’re gone,” Mike said in a stage whisper. Illya opened his mouth as if to protest, then stopped himself.

Napoleon’s brows took off. “My partner? Irritable?”

Mike laughed.

Illya said, “He neglects to add that I’m _very_ irritable when you’re here.” He met Napoleon’s scowl with a stoic face.

Mike, still chuckling, said, “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I have to file my report explaining the damage to the helicopter. It’s a good thing they don’t take this stuff out of our pay.” He waved and headed out.

“That doesn’t start ‘til you’re on salary,” Napoleon called after him. They went into their office, and Napoleon looked at the phone on his desk. “I’d better call Daphne and explain why I stood her up.”

“Don’t explain too much,” Illya said, going to his desk to sort through the top layers of his “in” box. “We’ll have to kill her.”

Illya tried to not listen to the content of the call, but Napoleon’s increasingly conciliatory tone made it hard to keep from chuckling. He almost lost it when Napoleon winced, held the phone away from his ear, and hung up, shaking his head.

Straight-faced, he said, “Am I to take it your music career has been nipped in the bud?”

Napoleon sighed. “I don’t know about you, partner, but I’m ready to go home and have a big hot meal and a big hot bath.”

“Your place is ... unlivable for the present,” Illya said.

Napoleon paused, a little embarrassed. “I forgot. I’m homeless.”

Illya said, “You can stay with me until they get it repaired.”

“Are you asking me to live with you?” Napoleon said, and grinned. “Without benefit of clergy?”

“If you think having a priest involved will help, you’re welcome to call one,” Illya replied.

“I think it’ll help more if I call Sirino’s and order some fettucine alfredo,” Napoleon said. “What do you say?”

Illya squinted. “Who is buying?”

“My treat.” Napoleon splayed his hand on his chest. “After all, you did rescue me from the tall tower, slay the dragon and carry me home. I’ll even order some wine.”

“If you expect me to treat you as a princess in a fairy tale, I’ll need something a lot stronger than wine,” Illya muttered, grabbing his jacket.

“Crusty bread soaked in garlic butter,” Napoleon crooned, “A fresh, crisp salad, and ... ice cream for after?”

“You’re singing my song, princess,” Illya said. “But don’t get any ideas. You’re still sleeping on the couch.”

Napoleon laid a hand over his heart. “Oh my ego. I need to stop by my place and pick up a change of clothes.”

“Let’s go, your highness.”

* * * *

At the door to his apartment, Napoleon paused. “Hey. How _did_ you know it wasn’t me? The assassin, I mean.”

Illya said, “He came in on time and didn’t flirt with any of the secretaries. He immediately started working on his reports, and never asked to borrow any money.” He lifted his chin. “It was obvious.”

“Illya.” Napoleon held his partner’s gaze, and a layer or two of defensive ice melted from Illya’s eyes.

“I didn’t know,” he admitted, low. “Not until afterward.”

Napoleon sighed, touched his partner’s arm. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t have to say he knew what it had been like; that was long understood between them. They were inseparable as two sides of a coin, a coin that had seen a lot of wear, but nonetheless increased in value as the years passed.

“Just don’t do it again,” Illya said, warmth under the teasing in his voice. “If they perfect the next one so that he chases all the girls and leaves me to do all the paperwork, I won’t have a chance of seeing through him.”

Napoleon just smiled, pressing Illya’s wrist briefly before turning back to his front door.

Seeing his partner wasn’t going to rise to the jibe, Illya relented. “Actually, I knew it wasn’t you when I learned he had an appendix.”

Napoleon scowled. “I have one too.” He deactivated the alarms to his door, unlocked it, opened it.

“What?”

“I have my appendix. Why would you think I didn’t?” He ushered his partner in, followed.

“During the Pertwee cyborg case, you said you didn’t have an appendix.”

Closing the door, Napoleon thought back to that case. “I was just making a joke. I haven’t had my appendix out.” Illya looked at him dubiously. “It’s in my files. You shouldn’t take everything I say seriously.”

Illya stared at him, absolutely dumbstruck.

Laughing, Napoleon threw an arm around Illya’s shoulders and squeezed.

“Only you, my friend. Who else would go through all this for me? Who else could show such ruthlessness, efficiency and loyalty—” He laughed again.

“Based on a mistaken premise,” Illya grumbled.

“That’s what I mean,” Napoleon insisted. “Even when you’re wrong you’re right. Is it any wonder I rely on you completely?”

They limped into the living room, where the wreckage of the Ovation still lay scattered across the coffee table and floor.

Napoleon stopped. “I’m sorry about your guitar.” He knew how much Illya valued it. “I’ll get you another one.”

Illya looked at him, unsmiling. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a plank of wood.”

 

The End

 

 


End file.
